“Are you feeling better, Francesca?” Herman asks as he opens the door for me a few days later. “I saw you throw up in the petunias a while back. There’s a nasty bug going around.”
Ha. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking. How’s Catherine?”
We stand near the entrance as he tells me about his wife’s root canal, then shows me a pic of his youngest grandson’s first birthday. My chest tightens at the image of a little toddler with cake smeared on his face.
“Are you going for a walk?” he says as I inch closer to the sidewalk.
I nod. “See you soon.”
He nods. “All right. Sorry again about Edward getting past me. Don’t tell the manager, yeah?”
Edward hasn’t even crossed my mind. He came to apologize, maybe absolve himself, and then found out I was pregnant. Priceless. “I doubt he’ll be back, Herman.”
I wave goodbye as I stick my hands in my black leather moto jacket and step out into the early December air. I walk down Fifth Avenue, then turn on East Seventy-Third Street and go inside Lottie’s Coffee and Book Shoppe. I’m yearning for a steaming cup of coffee, and the nutty, caramelized smell nearly makes me break my vow to ease off the caffeine for the pregnancy. With a sigh, I order a dragon-fruit-and-mango tea. It’s been the only thing that settles my stomach. I buy a book, then head back out.
I’m halfway back to Wickham when a man walks briskly past, then stops and glances at me.
His voice is deep and husky. “Francesca?”
My lips part in surprise until I find my voice. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, walking to me. Wearing a black wool coat, a thick scarf, and a Nike wool cap over his head, he’s not easily recognizable, but it doesn’t stop the women from giving him second and third looks.
“How are you?” he asks, and I can’t help but stare at his lips, the deep V at the top, the plump bottom one. Wicked lips. The way he used them on my neck, my breasts, the curve of my waist . . .
I shake myself inwardly.
Must stay away from the hot baller.
“Good.” Pregnant. I start walking again, and his steps adjust with mine.
“You headed home, I guess?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
“You already are.”
“My sweet princess is long gone.” He chuckles, then sobers. “I’m glad I saw you. You’ve been on my mind.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t know who stops walking first, me or him, but we do. We end up near the overhang of a store, and our eyes cling. Without dropping my gaze, he takes his hat off and pushes tawny hair away from his forehead, the ends brushing against his diamond-cut jawline. A small smile curls his lips. “I had a dream where you worked at Café Lazzo. You tossed spaghetti in my face when I asked for my order. Then everyone turned into breadsticks. Even you.”
A small laugh wants to erupt, and I bite my lips to hold it in. “You must have gone to bed hungry.”
“I had another one. Horrible.” He pulls his gloves off and tucks them in his pocket. “There was this virus that hit the world, and everyone turned into clowns. Little kids in bright clothes and makeup were running around everywhere trying to kill people. Women—did you know women clowns are called clownettes?”
I blink. “No.”
“Now you do. Anyway, these clown women were chasing me. They had crazy hats and big floppy shoes.” He shudders. “I’d just outrun them when I bumped into you as you ran from a ferret turned clown. We ran to Wickham, jumped on the elevator, and hid on the roof of my penthouse. Then, Jasper showed up as a pirate clown. He had a hook on his arm and said he wanted to slice us up and eat us. You grabbed a chain saw—from where, I don’t know—and tossed it at him. It hit him right in the forehead, and he fell off the building. Then I woke up.”
I shake my head as a laugh comes from me. “What do you think it means?”
He smiles, slow and sexy, and a shiver dances down my spine. “To make sure you have a chain saw when the clown apocalypse hits.”
“I read Stephen King’s It, and that was it for me and clowns. They’re awful,” I say.
“Same! Jesus. Clowns are fucking scary.”
We laugh at the same time, and I start, my laugh ebbing as I realize that he’s really funny. A silence settles between us as our gazes bounce off each other—and dammit, why can’t I look away? I dip my head, swallowing. “Ah, we should go.”
“Ah, right.” We take off again, our steps in sync. “Walking clears my head, you know, especially when it’s cold. It needs clearing a lot these days.” He grimaces. “You a football fan?”
“No.” I’ve watched a few games with Brogan, but that’s it.
“I can teach you, little princess. First, I’m a wide receiver. My job is to catch the ball, then outmaneuver the opposing team and get yardage. Jasper is the quarterback. He’s the one throwing the ball.”
I roll my eyes. “You and Cupid are in the NFL. I’m still wrapping my head around it.” I glance at the white scars on his knuckles.
His eyes follow mine. “Ah, those came from glass. Plus the ones on my wrist.”
“How?”
A frown flits over his face. “I pushed my hands through a window. Someone was inside a car . . .” His voice trails off. “It’s not important.”
I nod, pushing away my curiosity. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and really, the less I know about him, the better.
“Wait a sec, will you, Francesca?”
I’m not sure what he means, but I stop near a streetlamp.
He gives me a quick nod, then walks over to a man, maybe in his sixties, sitting on the concrete near an antique store. With his legs crossed, he wears a torn T-shirt, ragged jeans, and tennis shoes. Next to him is a cat and a cardboard box stuffed with junk, although I’m sure it’s not junk to him. Tuck bends down and talks to him longer than I expected, at least ten minutes, yet I don’t have the urge to leave. Tuck pets the cat, then takes off his coat and scarf and hands them over to him. They clasp hands; then Tuck walks back to me.
“Sorry I took so long. Ready?”
“That was nice. Most people just keep walking.” Me. I do. It’s as if you don’t see the homeless after a while. It’s a terrible thought, and I cringe. “Do you hand out coats frequently?”
When he doesn’t answer, I glance over at him, then gasp. “Oh my God, you do! What . . . do you just walk around at night and give out winter apparel?”
He shrugs. “There’s over fifty thousand homeless in Manhattan. If you count the entire state, it’s up to eighty. Some go to shelters—some don’t. The ones on the street, sometimes all they want is to talk to someone and make a connection. Giving him my coat isn’t much, but to him it is.” He pauses, wincing. “The tricky part is I feel good afterwards. Is that bad, that I do it for me too?”
“Not at all.”
He nods. “My therapist told me to help others last year. I started with giving more money to charities, but it was meaningless to write a check. So I started this.” He huffs out a small laugh. “Wow. I’ve never told anyone this.”
I mimic zipping my lips. “I’m surprised the media didn’t pick it up.”
“Most of the homeless don’t know who I am.”
A couple walks toward us holding hands, and we sidestep them to give them more room.
He glances over at me. “So do you ever think about that night?”
I don’t have to ask which night. “No, never.” Big. Fat. Lie.
“Yeah, me neither. It really sucked. Worst ever.”
“Totally, right?”
“Totally.” He smirks.
We walk up to the entrance, and Herman opens the door for us, a smile on his face. “Two of my favorites. How was the walk?”
“Great,” we both say at the same time, then glance at each other.
We head to the elevators and step inside. He’s on one side, and I move to the other as he types in his password for the penthouse. Several other residents get in, and we end up at the back together. Our hands brush as we face straight ahead.
“Would you like to come up?” he murmurs under his breath. “I’ll be good.”
I side-eye him. “No.”
“I never dreamed I’d see you again. Life is crazy, hmm?” He laughs, and Widow Carnes glances over at us. Her real name is Iris Carnes, but since the day she moved in and put her sights on Darden, we’ve referred to her as Widow Carnes. (She does have three dead husbands already.) In her late sixties, she has bobbed dark hair and beady eyes—which are currently staring a hole through me.
“Hmm. You mentioned you’re at a crossroads. Is that about your ex?” he asks.
“No. I’m way past him. Something else.”
“Ah, I see. Personal troubles. Jobless.”
“I got a job. I’m an art procurer.” Darden arranged it yesterday when he emailed everyone in his contacts who bought art. His words to me were Get clients. Throw my name around. Tell them you’ve purchased all my art for the past few years.
“You like art?” I ask.
“I do.” His gaze lingers on my face. “A lot.”
The elevator stops to let residents off, leaving us alone. He faces me as I do the same. His eyes brush over my locket.
“What?” I whisper. “It’s a locket. I wore it at the club.”
Green eyes blaze with heat as they rise to meet mine. “I know. You wouldn’t take it off. I fucked you while it bounced on your tits.”
Red colors my face.
I recall us in that bed.
The fire between us.
The delicious harmony.
I turn back to face the door.
“Sorry I brought it up,” he whispers. “It was an awful night, hmm?”
“Terrible.”
“Are you walking tomorrow? Same time?” he asks.
I pause, my head racing as the elevator stops on my floor.
He grabs my hand. “Francesca?”
I pull my hand from his grip, but before I walk away, I murmur, “Bring a coat.”
Dr. Lovell, my gynecologist, sits across from me and Brogan in her office. Tall and lean, she has short white hair, wire glasses, and a kind face.
Cece wanted to be here today, but she’s in LA. She came to my first appointment last week to confirm the pregnancy. During that visit, Dr. Lovell did blood work, examined me, and used a fetal Doppler to find the heartbeat.
It sounded like horses racing—and made everything terrifyingly real.
Because she knew my pregnancy was unplanned, Dr. Lovell went over different options in a factual, nonjudgmental way. She told me to take some time and think.
Brogan and Cece kept quiet in the apartment after that. There were no more songs, jokes, or discussions of baby clothes.
I went for walks, rode the subway, went to MoMA. I even borrowed Cece’s Range Rover and drove out to the shore. All of it was me turning everything over in my head.
What to do, what to do . . .
Choose door one or door two.
Keep my life the way it is or change it irrevocably.
I got pregnant while using the implant and condoms—impossible odds. You’d think I’d be cynical about the idea of fate considering the childhood I had, but I believe there’s good in everything. A grain of worthiness. Purpose.
Without my journey, I never would have moved to a city I adore.
I might never have met Darden, Brogan, and Cece.
I must believe in fate, or I’m just a kid someone abandoned.
What if my story was leading me here?
What if this baby was meant to be?
People have left me my whole life. Foster families. My first love. Edward.
Could I let this baby go?
Clarity arrived on the way back from Central Park a few days ago.
Perhaps I knew the moment Cece jumped out singing Madonna because before the fear of the unknown kicked in, part of my heart filled with hope.
My own little family. With Cece and Brogan and Darden.
She—for some reason it feels like a girl—will be mine to love forever.
I’m brought back to the present as Dr. Lovell glances at my chart on her laptop. “Just to recap, you’re in the first trimester. You know the date of conception, but we also add two weeks from the date of your last period, so technically you’re fourteen weeks. We don’t have medical history for the father, but your blood work is great with no underlying conditions. You have some weight-loss issues, but your baby measures normally.” She hands over the ultrasound picture we took earlier. It’s just blobs of black and white, but I clench it tight.
Brogan gives me a high five. “That’s what I’m talking about. My girl is primed to push out a bowling ball in June!”
Dr. Lovell laughs. “Your baby is soft and flexible. It will fit through your birth canal.”
“Med school dropout here,” he says. “I get it, but I like the bowling-ball analogy. Makes Fran sound like a badass.”
I roll my eyes.
“What about her nausea?” he asks a bit later. “She’s a vomit machine.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly.
“We’ll keep a check on it. How are your moods?” Dr. Lovell asks.
“Not fit for humanity,” I say with a grimace. “Everything makes me cry, even episodes of Gilmore Girls I’ve seen a hundred times.”
Brogan smirks. “When she tries to stop crying, it only makes her cry more because she’s pissed.”
“The nausea, the moods—it’s all to be expected,” she says. “For the nausea, focus on staying hydrated, and eat several smaller meals. Also, take naps to help with the mood swings.” She gives me a pamphlet with a list of healthy foods plus other information.
“Do ten Triscuits count as a meal?” I ask.
“No.”
My hands brush over my belly. “She’s going to be okay, right? Even though I’ve been living on cough drops, crackers, and coffee before I knew?”
She pats my hand. “Your appetite should increase now that your virus has passed. You’ve been sick. Don’t feel guilty, Francesca.”
My eyes catch on a framed diagram on her wall, a female abdomen with a full-term baby inside it. “Speaking of pushing out a baby . . . will my vagina be the same, you know, afterwards?”
She sets aside her laptop and chuckles. “I’ll give you some info about pelvic-floor exercises.”
My eyes flare. “So what I’m hearing is it won’t be the same?”
She pushes up her glasses. “Our bodies are meant to change and adapt during birth. All women are different.”
“Still not what I wanted to hear,” I grumble. “Doesn’t it just pop right back into place?”
She holds up her hands to form a circle. “This is about ten centimeters dilated, which is what you need for the baby.”
A clammy feeling rushes over me. “Uh . . . what?”
“I’ll make sure they stitch up your happy place so it’s not floppy,” Brogan says as he pats my hand.
I tense. “Promise you won’t look, Brogan! You’ll have to stay at my head, okay?”
“Maybe just a peek. I want to see a live birth. Whose better than yours?”
“Never,” I mutter.
He ruffles my hair, and I lean into him.
After getting more pamphlets and prenatal vitamins, we leave and head outside to a brisk December wind. I tug my peacoat closer around me and inhale the air. It feels like snow, and I sigh. Winter in Manhattan is my favorite: the Christmas decorations on the lampposts, the elaborate shop displays, the people milling around with smiles.
My mind invariably turns to Tuck the closer we get to Wickham. We’ve taken three walks, counting the first one. We haven’t talked about anything personal. I do, however, know that his jersey number is eighty-one, he’s been playing since he was ten, and when he was in college, he sometimes played quarterback. I know you can score different ways on the field: touchdown, extra point, two-point conversion, field goal, and safety.
I kept information about myself brief: I grew up all over New York, I don’t have siblings, I love Manhattan.
On the last walk, we stopped at a food truck and got hot chocolates, then wandered through a Christmas tree farm illuminated by crisscrossing strings of fairy lights. As “Jingle Bells” played over the loudspeaker, he asked me to have dinner with him.
I wanted to say yes. That really stupid, gooey part of me. I watched the man hand out a coat a night. But I also knew from the tabloids that he was a party boy who dated supermodels.
I haven’t been able to resist the walks with him, but anything else . . .
I told him no.
I glance over at Brogan. “About Tuck. If I tell him, is he going to be angry I didn’t terminate? No way does he want a kid with the girl from the sex club. Right?”
“Sure, his feelings are relevant, but it’s your body. You don’t want time or money from him . . .” He gives my hand a squeeze. “Look, you don’t have to tell him. You’ve got a new job, and I’ve saved up a shit ton of money—”
“Hang on. You said you were going back to med school. You need to use your money for that.”
He keeps his face straight ahead so I can’t read it. “Meh, whatever. I changed my mind.”
No, he didn’t. I’ve seen him buried in his old textbooks when he gets off work. He’s prepping. His first year of med school, he dropped out to take care of his sick sister. After she got better, he got a job at Decadence to pay her medical bills and put school on hold. That was three years ago.
“You’re going back,” I say. “You’ve always dreamed of being a surgeon, and you will be one.”
“I’m gonna help with whatever Baby Ivy needs. Get over it.”
I huff. “That’s your last name. And you’re trying to change the topic.”
He steers me inside my favorite pastry shop. “Let’s see if they have any of those peanut butter balls I like. They aren’t on your food list, though.”
“Just cruel. If you’re getting them, I’m eating one.”
We walk past a pastry case, and my stomach rumbles. “Brogan. Oh my God, look at those lemon bars—”
I glance up for Brogan and see Tuck at the checkout counter several feet away, the rest of my words dying on my lips. He’s buying chickpea vegan cookies. And Courtney is next to him.
I tug Brogan behind a display of Christmas cookies. It’s been over a week since our last walk—when I still didn’t know what I was going to do. Annoyance stirs. Part of me is pissed he hasn’t tried harder to see me. The other side is upset that Courtney is with him. Then I’m ticked because I’m upset. I have no right to him. We aren’t dating. We took some walks. Big whoop.
“Are we going to hide behind these cookies for a while?” Brogan murmurs.
“We aren’t hiding,” I say. “We’re avoiding. How bad do you need a peanut butter ball?”
“Peanut butter is a wonder food. It boosts your immune system—”
“There’s chocolate chips and old peanuts at home. Let’s run out the door in three, two, one—”
I grab his hand, and we dash for the exit.
“Life sure does want you to see him,” he murmurs.
I grimace. Fate is a tenacious bitch.
And sometimes when she doesn’t get what she wants, she tries again and again.
